Fraying
by hyacinthian
Summary: They both move on, but it means different things. GeorgeAnnie.


A/N: Betaed by Mara.

* * *

She's ready now.

Moved on, accepted her fate, ready to _embrace _life, not death. Death, _her _death, is so passe. She strolls down the streets of Bristol, peeking into shops. She's made her New Years' resolution; no more crocheted tops, monochromatic color scheme, gray leggings - not that there's anything _wrong _with gray leggings, but she's ready for more. Her fingertips skim across hundreds of different fabrics, patterns. She tries wrap dresses, babydoll dresses, short dresses - she's itching to get on with her life, to go out and be young, but she can't commit to buying anything.

And then she sees it. This little black dress that falls a little above the knee, with a little ruching around the neckline.

The day she buys it, she takes it straight home and changes into it, tag poking her uncomfortably in the back.

George walks in, finds her standing in the hallway, facing the mirror. "You look nice," he says.

She turns, the dress swishing around her knees. "Thank you," she beams. It's been so long since she feels close to who she used to be; the moment draws her past and her present closer together.

Toeing into a pair of heels, tousling her hair, she looks at herself in the mirror. She's ready for this. She can go outside, but more than that, she can go out. "What's the occasion?" George asks.

She smiles warmly. "Me." The corners of his eyes wrinkle in confusion, but she turns back toward the mirror, listening to the sound of his retreating footfalls. They all have their own secrets of existence (she will never know the pain of changing; he will never know the apathy of being unseen; neither of them will know the strength of hunger).

She tells herself she's going to go to Panache this weekend. Sure, it'd be better if she had her girls with her, but they've moved on. And now, she thinks, looking at her reflection, so will she.

-

The weekend passes.

Friday night, she dresses up. Black eyeliner, smudged eye shadow, mascara, and lip gloss all painstakingly applied.

She waits until 9 p.m. (It's been so long since she's been properly out, she's sure that anyone who goes out before 11 is still technically lame.)

The clock ticks as she stares at the door, twitchy in her heels. No, she thinks. 10. 10 is a much better time, bigger crowd.

She walks to the door, peers through the peephole.

The time passes; she doesn't go.

(She forgets she doesn't have make-up remover; she changes into the gray leggings, a navy knit sweater, and heads to the shop.)

Next weekend, she tells herself. She'll be truly ready next weekend.

-

Next weekend passes the same way.

It's going to happen, she thinks, as she removes her earrings. _It has to_.

George comes home from his date when she's making cups of tea. She hands him a fresh one; his hands shake. "What's the matter?"

"I - I did that to her," he says. He takes off his glasses, his Star of David. "I changed her. Into - into it."

She takes his hands. "George. It's going to - " She pauses, startled; she's never heard George refer to the werewolf as a part of himself. She catches herself before giving him a reassuring smile. "It's going to be okay."

"No," he says. "It's not. How can it be?"

"What happened?"

"We broke up," he says. Annie can feel the warmth of his hands between her own. She rubs his hands slightly, encouraging him to say more. "I don't think I should work at the hospital anymore."

She pulls back. "What?"

"I don't want to be her - her Tully."

"George, I'm sure you're not going to crash at her place for weeks and irritate her to death."

"He wanted to be close to me because he - I just don't want to be that for her."

"You could help her."

He stands then. "I'm going to bed." She watches on as he heads down the hall towards his bedroom.

-

Valentine's Day and they're home alone. She's not sure if he's quite as miserable as she is right now, but they're pretty close. She's still in her dress and heels, make-up still on; he walked in with armfuls of bags before she was about to change and somehow never went back to finish what she didn't start.

Halfway through the night, though, things start getting better. It feels ... more comfortable. He had surprised her with a bag of marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and chocolate bars.

"You know I can't eat," she says.

"I know," he says, setting the items down on the coffee table and handing her some skewers. "But half the fun is in making them, not eating them."

She smiles as he goes to microwave a cup of tea. Around ten p.m., there's a classic Who marathon on television. George tells her in between bites of s'mores about his favorite Doctor (that'd be Four). She smiles at his reaction when she tells him that she prefers Ten - David is _much _cuter and the robots aren't as camp.

"Annie," he says, "_That _is sacrilege." She laughs.

An hour later, as she considers herself a bit of an expert on the subject, they discuss the potential tackiness of his scarf.

("It's _classic_."

"It's like a dull beige nightmare. You know they make yarn in colors other than boring.")

She toes off her shoes then as they start playing New Who, and, with her feet propped up on the arm of the sofa, her body weight leaned against his side, they discuss the merits of how good Kylie Minogue is at disguising her Australian accent.

(Verdict: Good enough.)

-

She suggests he order food about an hour later. He rolls his eyes. "Just leave it."

"You can't eat s'mores for dinner. What are you, eight?"

Dead or not, she's still Annie, nurturing, sensitive, and exceptionally good at nagging. "If you're not going to ring the Indian place, I will."

The food comes a half hour later and she splits her time between the television and watching George eat. She slips her arm behind his and leans on him. She feels warm, distantly sleepy.

He brushes a curl away from her face then, fingers barely touching her skin. "You sleeping?"

She smiles. "No."

"Good," he says, "because Six is coming up and he's my second favorite."

She laughs.

-

He looks at her then, in the dark, fingers brushing at her hair.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"For what?" he asks.

"Making me feel needed, I suppose." She pulls away from him then, stands, and stretches. "I'm going to go change," she says, trying to tamp down her hair.

"Why?"

She laughs. "I look like such an idiot."

He takes her hands, runs his fingertips along her palm. "You don't," he says.

She can feel her breathing pick up as she moves closer, and she knows, she shouldn't feel nervous because it's George, but it's George, and she doesn't really know what she's doing.

She sighs when she kisses him.

"Annie," he whispers, confused, "What--"

"I don't know," she says. But she moves in again and he's not stopping her; his lips are soft and they move over hers just so that make her feel warmer than ever. She slides onto his lap and his hands settle on her hips and it just feels like maybe this is what she needed.

His hands brush the straps of her dress down and it's just his hands and her bare shoulders and she tilts her head back because god, this feels so good, and George's lips are dragging down her neck, making her heart beat faster. Her legs tighten around his hips, pressing herself down against him. He groans into the soft skin of her shoulder.

When she stands and pulls him to his feet, she catches his eyes again, his glasses still on the table. They're dark and dilated and she can see a hint of it lingering there in the background; then, his voice, low and deep:

"Annie?"

She shivers.

The dishes can wait 'til morning.

(They walk, fingers twined, to her bedroom.)


End file.
